


sorrow won't wait till you die.

by Mothkraft



Series: Jojo's Bloodborne Adventure [1]
Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), ジョジョの奇妙な冒険 | JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken | JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bloodborne Fusion, Alternate Universe - No Stands (JoJo), Bittersweet, Gen, I FORGOT TO TAG CHARACTER DEATH LIKE A WASSOCK, Implied Relationships, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), and it's not even a character study idk how to describe this, but i mean what did /you/ expect, i mean what's more romantic than a past full of dealing with Yharnam's bullshit, i'm sorry AO3 but Kars is not spelt KAAZ, idk what to tag I'll be honest guys just read my dang bloodborne au, idk whether to tag them lol, just in case that wasn't clear, like they're in their earlys 30s at most kinda thing, mildly aged up characters for bloodborne reasons, more significant in a tangential way later???, my beta told me i should tag him as lightning mcqueen instead and honestly that would be a curveball, suzie and holly are mentioned moreso than anything, this is like...them...born in the bloodborne universe..., this is more a character study and world-building sorta thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:41:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25454860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothkraft/pseuds/Mothkraft
Summary: After years of away from them, Joseph Joestar embarks upon a Chalice Dungeon at the Healing Church's behest.He's surprised to be assigned with his ex-hunting partner Caesar in this endeavour. Neither knows exactly what they're expected to find there.(aka summary bad, come join me in my niche Bloodborne Crossover no-one asked for)
Relationships: Joseph Joestar & Caesar Anthonio Zeppeli, Joseph Joestar/Caesar Anthonio Zeppeli, Joseph Joestar/Suzie Quatro
Series: Jojo's Bloodborne Adventure [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1843672
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	1. Prologue - A Dungeon Unearthed.

**Author's Note:**

> At long last...starting to get my bloodborne au beta'd and uploaded...heheh
> 
> Most of the series will be self contained moments in the same continuity, though there is a certain chronology. (aka any Phantom Blood stuff is the major past, instigating actions that cause this mess (thanks Dio), this here, 'Battle Tendency' is Joseph's past experiences as hunter and the events of Stardust Crusaders is the 'Present Day' of the AU set a bit before the game's canon, so no Paleblood Hunter shenanigans - but that may change).
> 
> Also tags+warnings will change. Mostly because of violence and other stuff. It is Bloodborne after all.
> 
> Now onto the fic. Gonna put up this Prologue and Chapter 1 straight away...because I'm a mess.
> 
> Thanks Belladeum for beta'ing you absolute legend.
> 
> Also hoarfrost_hearts for being a big motivator to work on a jjba bloodborne au. You funky person you!
> 
> edit: ao3 removed all my italic emphasis so now i have to piss around again.

Joseph watches carefully as Giants hack and slash their way through the ground, excavating. An overseer of sorts, some Church honcho, looks through papers, delegates orders and watches carefully the clumsy actions of the towering lame things.  
Joseph's veins feel hot, a coil of excitement as the ground gives way to a hollow tunnel, a foundation, paved and walled, the exquisite feeling of discovery never leaves even after time and choice has distanced him from his original Healing Church work. The Giants stop, groaning, and are ordered to shuffle away.

"Well then, they call you ‘Eccentric’, why don't you put your talents to use?" The Church officiant speaks. It isn't a suggestion, and Joseph has spent enough time to know it isn't wise to talk back. The Church doesn't appear to have an inch of wriggle room for humour or snideness, at least not with these kinds of men, harsh of face, scowls worn permanently. Joseph waves off the given title too (obtained after his first forays in the Chalice Dungeons, his wily intuition in clearing them, an eye for hidden paths and illusory walls) mostly because they don’t like to speak his surname, so he won't give any substitute the recognition either. He gets  _ why _ though. It’s best not to push back and demand to be called something that’ll bring ire or hushed remarks anyway.

He moves to enter the freshly revealed entrance only for that overseer to speak up, “You can read can’t you? The orders stated you’d be accompanied into this Dungeon, wait for your partner.” Great, now  _ he’s _ getting snark from some shitty Church representative. He’s already been dragged into this  _ because _ they wanted  _ his _ expertise and he’s busy being insulted by a nameless twat. His upper lip curls with frustration but he bites his tongue. No speaking back, just get this job done and go  _ home _ , never involve himself with the Church again. The Workshop provides duty enough anyway.

But then his ‘partner’ arrives, uncoventionally garbed where his own gear is the proper sort for exploring the Chalices. And _oh_ fuck it’s _him_. Fan-fucking-tastic. Of all people, of all hunters he could possibly work with in the dank and dark of the tombs - Joseph doesn’t want one that warrants him to revisit old memories, unwelcome distractions.

"I wasn't expecting you here, Caesar," Joseph is curt, testing the waters. He hasn't hunted with the other in years, though this isn't even a _hunt_. This is graverobbing, he thinks his grandfather would be turning in his grave, a man who explored for the sake of knowledge and passion - at least that’s what he’d been told by Speedwagon. The Church doesn’t like him saying much at all, waving his commentary off as the ramblings of a very old man, gone in the head, romanticising the past and only permitted to speak about _that man_ because of his history.  
Joseph really doesn’t know that much, all things considered. His mother took on a different name, and his father wasn’t really of the Church. Doesn’t know much about his father either, only that he died young. Family history isn’t his interest anyway, not when living in the now was hard enough with monsters perpetuating fear of the night.

"Well, they couldn't let some hunter just traipse his way through, smashing things along the way," the other says with no real bite. It’s like Caesar doesn’t even want to toy with him, it’s clinical the way he speaks and Joseph has no fondness for prattle with no substance.

"The Church _literally_ has a whole division for just that, the thing they had me doing for years, you know?" They start walking into the tunnel, his Beast Cutter holstered on his belt along with his blunderbuss, a satchel of supplies instead in one hand, the other holding a torch to guide their descent. Caesar’s choice of arms is a Holy Blade, slung heavy across his back. _Some things never change_ , Joseph thinks. It surely isn’t a conventional choice for a man now under the guidance of the Choir, though he’s sure that Caesar has some manner of Tools hidden away in his coat and robes. Still there’s assurance in seeing the familiar silver greatsword, knowing how capable Caesar is at handling threats with that grand blade. The hefty strikes of his Holy Blade has always complimented Joseph’s Beast Cutter, a brutal thing that snaps into a long wrenching whip to subdue foes at a distance. Caesar instead can dash in as monsters are caught dazed, to cut them down with the entirety of the greatsword or with the quick slashes of the longsword housed within the Blade’s casing.

"All because _you_ declined joining _me_."

"I've been doing good work for the people of Yharnam." Hunting monsters in the night served more of a purpose than ransacking the countless dungeons for materials and secrets.

"The Choir serves a _greater_ purpose, you know that. Communing with Great Ones isn’t a small task.”

"Sounds like you haven't tried writing a polite letter to Them." Joseph didn’t expect it to be so easy to fall back into old habits - talking back to Caesar, mocking Caesar. Trying to pry a smile from Caesar through extraordinarily stupid comments.

"How, pray tell, would we send it?" Caesar raises a brow, the clinical tone he’s taken softening to something more amiable.

"Big cannon, pointing upwards," Joseph says it like an obvious fact, using the space between the torch in his hand and the bags to gesture the breadth of such a device.

Caesar looks perplexed for a moment, Joseph thinks he’s about to go about some tangential rant about how ridiculous such an idea was (which fair dues, it is entirely stupid) but instead gifts Joseph with a chuckle which grows into laughter, fat and brimming with genuine delight. Joseph joins in, and their nonchalant stupidity goes unheard in the solemn tunnel.

The hollow cavern and paved walkways eventually turn to the more familiar structured halls and rooms, announcing that they have made it to the first depth of the Chalice Dungeon.

Wordlessly they press on, the crackling fire from the torch no longer the sole ambient noise as they encroach upon Pthumerian grounds and its inhabitants become eager to ward off intruders.

Joseph and Caesar however, are far more eager to get the business done, to acquire whatever Holy Medium or fantastical artifact the Church desires and be out of their midst and beyond their call, so both can respectively continue with their desired works.

He knows that strength of will alone has been sufficient in the past to guide him through the gruelling expanse of the Chalices and to face off against whatever lines of defense the Pthumerians have left behind.

A heavy metal-toothed weapon also helps in this regard.

Joseph is in luck; he possesses both.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caesar learns something new. But mostly realises time can't change all that much when it comes to his old friend. He doesn't think that to be bad at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just gonna dump chapter 1 immediately.

Caesar doesn't think Joseph has changed all that much in their years apart. He's still vicious in battle, always aware of the space around him when attracting the attention of several foes. Time hasn't slowed him at all (he knows that's a good thing, but some spark in him hoped that Joseph would have dulled in some manner, that Caesar's absence meant a lack of discipline as if he were responsible for any skill Joseph had had in the first place).

Even now, he's always been one to use his wits in combat and words the rest of the time. It's debatable whether those words carry the same wit, sometimes there'd be a snide comment, but that had left little to be desired by those above who made decisions. Other times it was all crude snark, tasteless when confronted against beastly maws, wide with snarls and screams, fangs and howls. As if _beasts_ cared to react to words and not the flailing advancements of a hunter.  
To this end, Caesar wasn't surprised to learn Joseph had only been kept and recalled because of his, seemingly, natural affinity towards the hunt.

(And maybe the _Joestar_ name helped. Even if the lineage had been stricken from official record, if the name went unspoken, its memory was still revered.  
The particular _Joestar_ to have caused all the unrest in regards to their name, Joseph's lost grandfather, had been of great fascination to the Church some decades ago. His had been major contributions towards the tombs - writing great tomes regarding their nature, documenting histories and secrets. But, _allegedly_ , that man spoke nothing but _ill_ of blood - Caesar knows this only as rumour, it's too ridiculous to even be a parody of the truth.  
To think such a progenitor of knowledge would willingly be part of the Healing Church, its foundation knowingly steeped in blood, yet be so vehemently opposed to that very thing? Why would a man of his time simply not remain within Byrgenwerth College and their outdated ways? Still, examples were made of _heretics_ no matter their contributions, and for a name to simply be lost, forbidden in the span of two generations...maybe there was an echo of truth amongst his doubts…)

None of that explains why Joseph had rejected his offer, all those years ago. He even abandoned his _mother_. For what? To sit low on the food chain, being sent out as fodder for the terrors that stalked city streets. A man of his talents was _wasted_ on the front lines of Yharnam's hunts. There was intelligence behind all of the bravado and banter he produced whilst left to attend to grim affairs. He was a hunter with a knack for learning. It would have been easy to ascend the ranks from Black regalia to White, and perhaps with some suggestions even be lifted to the Choir (his mother would want that, to be kept at arms distance, safe and together with _friends_ and not surrounded by teeth and drooling jaws).

These are all thoughts Caesar indulges in during the intermission between fights as they sit together, tending to their equipment, preparing themselves in the hall abruptly ending with ornate heavy doors, the guardian of this dungeon's depth awaiting them within - whatever it might be, a thing sealed behind in a space that time would not have touched in decades, centuries. Another thing to put to rest before descending to _another_ depth, to find what warrants the Church to order _Choir_ assistance.

"I have a daughter," Joseph speaks out like it should've been known all along. The tender words don't match the blood and grime clinging to his skin, the viscera and innards of rather dead Pthumerian corpses dyeing his prospecting garb sickly dark.

"And you think having a family couldn't be done in the Choir?"

"Fuck you, Caesar," Joseph's words come out quick, as if that was going to be his response no matter what they had said. Then a breath, a dirty gloved hand running through equally dirtied hair. The blood slicks the wild nest of brown back. Joseph then continues, as if to reiterate, "We both know they wouldn't be happy with that, or worse, they'd wanna know more about my kid."

Children were certainly an interest of the Church. Or rather the bloodlines that birth them, obsessions with miraculous pregnancies, attempting to create infant gods. The Choir had been unsuccessful in this, the awful creatures they had started to accrue, surely one day there'd be enough to fill _nurseries_. None of those things had produced Cords of the Eye - each one deemed a failure. So they were disposed of and examined instead, to see the error in their methods. Nothing ever came of it. And so it is within reason that Joseph has secrets and reservations on creating a family within the intimate circles of the Choir or even those on pillars below, heading the Church. Joseph had always been an odd case. His blood had been tested before, had properties that whispered of great healing potential - though from straight ministration it seemed diluted in effect and thus impractical to use or maybe just too much work to cultivate further. The queerness of it being no such transfusions had taken place to turn him to sainthood. There was no known family line of experimentations to augment and evolve some precursor in his bloodline.  
Nothing to indicate ministrations beyond the routine check ups the Church performed to check for beasthood.  
_Have those properties always been there? What kind of family tree results in blood properties like that occurring organically? One that gets redacted from records and associated works relegated to the most confidential documents the Church has_ , Caesar supposed.

  
"They would've taken her, or my wife; you remember Suzie, right?"

The name rings familiar, but the full memory is foggy. Caesar struggles for a moment before it clicks. A pretty face, being chased down by beasts, back when Caesar and Joseph still hunted together as a unit. She had pulled out a knife to fend off the beast as a token effort to try and suspend her death if but for a moment, able to get in a quick stab before being forced to release her grip on the blade, recoiling from a clawed swipe. Then Joseph had barrelled headfirst into the monster, staggering it momentarily before letting his Cutter tear through and cleaving it from shoulder to leg. Then he had continued to eviscerate the whimpering thing, leaving it a limp pile of mashed flesh and fur. He had picked up the knife from the remains (it had been serrated, well balanced, a thing for throwing found in the common hunters' arsenal) wiping it on the long cloth of his coat before handing it back to her. She had sustained some minor injuries overall, surprising, _lucky_ considering the usual fate bestowed on unprepared civilians caught up in the hunt. They had escorted her back home, located in the hub of narrow streets in Cathedral Ward. Such a meeting had stuck to all of them - on nights not pregnant with blood and fear they had met as friends of all things.

As Caesar was brought up further within the Church and then beyond for his knack with the arcane, there had been no time for companionship outside his newfound peers amongst the Choir, thus Caesar's ties had loosened.

Joseph's evidently had not.

Joseph wipes his hand on the length of his coat (like he had done with the knife those years ago) and pulls off a single, bloody glove before reaching in and taking something from inside his coat, a small piece of paper, offering it to Caesar,  
"My daughter, Holly," he smiles, using the back of his bare hand to try and wipe some of the remaining blood away from his face. Still, plenty red remains smudged over his face so with an annoyed 'hrmph' he just accepts he's going to have to deal with a disgusting layer caking his skin.

The small portrait of his child suddenly makes the world feel small. It contextualises everything in that instant, reminding Caesar that a long time ago he too wished to have a family, large and adoring, and that such thoughts are folly for a man with obligations such as he.  
The girl is bright eyed even in the murky photograph, her face framed with light locks of hair and a smile plastered to her face, wide and happy. She has her father's eyes, Caesar can tell despite the sepia tones of the image. She has inherited another wonderful thing from her father, the bright eyes and his tremendous smile.

From his peripherals he can see Joseph grinning (Gods, the child in the photo had certainly inherited the _smile_ ). The focus on the photo and the distraction of Joseph's grin makes Caesar unaware that one has snuck onto his own face. When on duty, Caesar tends to his image being _professional_ , expressions reserved, focussed - a serious face for the serious task at hand (unlike Joseph whose apparent default state is some sort of impish curve to his lips even in the face of adversity)...but he's been taken out of the moment surrounding them (though nothing can truly remove the glowing torchlight and musty corpse smell that pervades every Chalice Dungeon he's ventured) and Caesar lets out a short laugh, not unlike the one that had sprung from him unfettered at the beginning of this foray, before returning the photograph.  
(Joseph had always managed to do that, hadn’t he? Found ways to smooth at the rigid sense of duty Caesar carried. Took it in his stride to pluck laughter and smiles from Caesar even in the grimmest of times, the blue-dark of a beast filled night or the cold grey of the tombs that they pass through now).

Joseph places the photograph back safely within the protective layers clothing him. Only then does he slip the long leather glove back on, avoiding tainting it in any way.

"I'll be honest, I didn't think I'd ever see you again, _Caeserino_ ," and he's back to dropping in the nickname like it hasn't been years since he's last heard that unique butchery of his name, so there's clearly no animosity remaining from Joseph's minor spat moments before, "but here we are, talking again, fighting again side-by-side, covered in blood. All things considered, I want you to be her godfather, if you'd like that anyway." The start and end of his sentence don't match up, the same way that his fond smile at the words 'I have a daughter' didn't align with a face covered in blood whilst he fidgeted with his weapon.

Caesar doesn't even engage in thought before his words fall out of him. "Yes, I'd like that."  
Joseph smiles again (and again it doesn't look quite right when blood covers any evidence of a flushed face, but Caesar just _knows_ that their face is heated because his is too).

A chance to be welcomed into this family Joseph has, perhaps to make amends and be part of a life outside the maniacal duties he's swathed himself in for so long, a chance to reconnect with his most dear friend, even if it can only dull the ache in his chest and not vanquish it completely.

It's funny how things don't quite go the way you plan them. It's funny because somewhere beyond the scope of existence something primordial and incomprehensible must be laughing at the machinations of fate, destiny - whatever designates the cruelty of life.

And scholars say, in their infinite wisdom, that Great Ones are sympathetic in nature.

Life has no such arbiter of sympathy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, I wonder where this is heading.
> 
> The idea behind miraculous bloodlines is well, let's just say the Joestar bloodline has plot significance to the AU.
> 
> Also chapter 2 might be a while...because I'm working on about 6 other variant Bloodborne fics. Debating whether to separate 2 into '2 and Epilogue'. I'll see when I get there. I actually have most of the meat for Chap 2, but it needs to be seasoned, cooked and beta'd. So maybe I'll get it up sooner than my pessimism assumes.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final Layer appears empty. Dungeons rarely make sense, but this is beyond their scope of knowledge. An explanation is found. Sometimes it’s better to stay ignorant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this turned into its own chapter unexpectedly, and came together rather quickly,  
> So...uh...lucky you, readers, you get more content for the price of nothing.  
> Thanks again Belladeum for beta'ing, here's to hoping ao3 doesn't mess up the formatting again. Also ty for juicing up my brain for a neat little something that'll come to fruition near the end of the whole AU. Look forward to that readers in approxiamately 10 years time ///OTL

They both suspect they're closing in on the origin of the labyrinth, its heart, and undoubtedly where the most danger lies. Where another Pthumerian _thing_ surely waits and beckons for fresh meat to torment.

Joseph had commented his complete surprise when this layer appeared to be completely empty, devoid of real threat. No guardians present to impede progress. Traps that had been destroyed prior (this place had just been _excavated_ , how was that possible? What forces had attempted to seek it out? Had it been centuries, the archaic suits of armour that rested here evidence of that? Or was it merely decades and their way in was merely one of many - had those at Byrgenwerth in its prime managed to harvest all manner of things from this place? But then why had the previous layers still been populated? What wretched sort of Dungeon _was_ this?).

Joseph had _carefully_ tested a few pressure plates that he had noticed on the ground - pressing them with a foot, ready to react. There had been nothing - none of those awful statues spitting bolts with intense fervour, not even the creatures bursting into existence to catch them off-guard.

Caesar was at a loss as to why this was and so was his companion. It all felt intensely _wrong_ , an instinctual discomfort, a churning that ran up his spine as they continued to venture through the empty layer with caution.

“Caesar, take a breath.”

“What are you on about Joseph, I’m breathing fine.” Caesar frowned.

“No I mean _take_ a _breath_.”

So he did, deeply. Oh. _Oh_. Of course Joseph would notice something like this. Even the pervasive _smell_ was absent: the air was clearer than anything he had experienced in Dungeons prior. What was going on here?  
“Why the fuck did I get tangled up in this again?” Joseph mutters, his expression distant.

Caesar doesn’t know whether to answer with something genuine - that Joseph’s curiosity had always run deep, so of course the opportunity to explore a _new_ Chalice Dungeon was always going to be enticing despite his reservations and concerns. Even on the comparatively simple beast hunts, he’d wanted to learn better the nature of beasthood despite the heresy such entailed. 

That the Church would have surely coerced him if he had rejected the call. 

That accepting the task was the simplest, safest option. The one with least resistance for all parties.

(Caesar knows this because the Church had strongarmed the Choir into this entire debacle, usually content to leave them to their arcane devices). 

So he doesn’t say anything at all for a long moment, letting Joseph have his pensive moment, instead reaching out to place his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“I’m thinking the same - how _did_ I get tangled up with your stubborn arse again after years of blissful quiet?” He gives Joseph’s shoulder a squeeze.

“ _Hey_ , you like this _arse_ ,” Joseph grins, the prior frustration appearing to dissipate so quickly it may as well have never been there.

“I beg to differ.” If Caesar could roll his eyes any further he’d maybe see the inside of his own head. And maybe that was the _actual_ way to find out whether there were _eyes_ on the inside too. By dealing with Joseph’s innate annoyingness. It would surely be an easier solution than beckoning _Gods_.

“Sure sure, I didn’t take you for a _homewrecker_ ,” Joseph says lightheartedly. 

(There’s an odd pang of guilt in Caesar’s gut when he says that - had those feelings between them only been something fleeting, the wild intimacy and reliance that came as hunting partners? In the years apart had they been replaced or repressed or lost? The request to become Holly’s godfather comes back to the forefront of thought - it was an explicit invitation to be part of his family in the only way he could now. He thinks from the way Joseph looks at him even now, the misplaced tenderness of it, that he certainly has some lingering feelings from their past).

They press on. The layer’s path drives them to its end rapidly - it doesn’t take too long to really ‘explore’ what is otherwise an empty Dungeon. Joseph doesn’t even spot any illusory paths; it’s strange there’s not even a hidden treasury, such a room typical for a Dungeon of this size, of its eminence.

The final hall that stood before them was, dare he say, beautifully decorated. 

"Have you ever seen carvings like these?" Joseph asks despite his repertoire of Dungeon knowledge outweighing anything Caesar possessed. Contrasting the emptiness discovered so far, the walls were decorated in something that _suggested_ promise - carvings of _rituals_ , some with imagery evocative of chalices, others with silhouettes heralding what appeared to be _masks_ , a distorted carving of bodies beneath those.

“No,” he half-lies. The imagery is akin to something mentioned in the small manifesto Caesar had been provided by the Choir, objects to seek, to collect. Joseph is trustworthy beyond anything, but he’s forced to play ignorant. He doesn’t know whether Joseph ever had an opportunity to read his grandfather’s works - likely not because then the intricately carved burial masks would ring familiar - things hinted at in the old desecrated books the Choir had managed to... _appropriate_ from Byrgenwerth, penned by that Joestar _himself_. 

“I guess whatever those things are,” Joseph taps the carving of the masks with his Cutter (Caesar tries not to grimace as he fears for any damage to the ancient craftsmanship) “are what we’re after? Or the Chalice, but fuck the Church if they want me to look into where that leads.”

The hall ended with the tell-tale descending set of stairs that introduced them to doors even larger than anything prior in the Dungeon (decorated in a similar fashion to the ornate walls) - surely its Heart lay beyond that threshold.

With the end potentially being in sight they divvy up what remains of their supplies - they’ve not the best between them now, Joseph’s additional satchel of supplies had proved useful, yes, but cannot compensate for the volumes of creatures that had impeded their progress prior and had expectedly reduced their blood vial reserves.

Caesar is grateful to still have a healthy supply of quicksilver bullets, considering them for the small Choir Bell at his disposal. It’s a last resort Tool - a costly thing to use, and quicksilver is often better spent trying to snatch the advantage from a foe.

They both push the doors wide open to silence, and then a wretched stench hits them, far worse than the odours that had been present layers before. 

The source of the pungent miasma is clear; a hearty pile of Pthumerian corpses lies by the far wall (most are asunder, abdomens torn open, _none_ of this makes sense) and more are strewn in haphazard clusters in the vast room. 

There’s no evidence of a path beyond - even with the bodies piled high, the architecture, the sheer expanse of this singular room brings the feeling of finality.

“Holy shit,” Joseph speaks a little breathlessly, clearly adjusting to the smell after a minute of basking in it. Adaptability is key in these tombs. It’s not the smell that Joseph’s reacting to as he points over to motion amidst the corpses, something disturbing the stillness. Noises echo, it’s disgustingly similar to the sound of a serrated weapon carving through flesh only to get hitched on bone or something particularly tough. The kind of noise Caesar knows from years of working besides Joseph, watching him have to pull his Cutter brutally from some oversized monstrosity with a hideous _squelch_ whenever enthusiasm had let his strikes land a little too hard, weapon becoming _jammed_ into his prey.  
But it isn’t a weapon making that _noise_ , instead three figures are... _consuming_ the dead, pulling limbs from anything still _whole_. Gorging themselves.

These are responsible for the complete vacant state of this _entire_ layer, every possible threat is already dead, is _food_ for whatever the fuck these three are. 

At first glance they don’t even appear Pthumerian - where Caesar has seen and fought things deathly pale of face with sunken eyes these beings are, though still pallid, a far darker complexion than the elderly-looking things often devoted to keeping the treasures of the Dungeons safe. (Those foes with powers breaching the _mystical_ that even Caesar with his Choir knowledge attempting to manage the cosmos, doesn't quite understand).

Noticing the intrusion upon their dominion the trio abandon their _feasting_ , attention now fixed on the two hunters. 

The beings stand tall, and despite being of the same stock as all other Pthumerians they still look closer to _men_ in their prime, their physicality being broader and stronger than anything he’s seen before in the Dungeons. But that, the fact that makes them half-dead things perpetuated by eldritch powers beyond the Church’s understanding, is evidence enough they are anything but _men._

All three are adorned in some mix between the swathes of rich red robes (attire belonging to those of the highest creed, so distant from the corpse-like serfs that simply roam and watch over the tombs) and the scale armour of the the stalwart armed warriors they’d slain along their path to this place.

The more attention he puts on their appearance, the more things look _off_ about them. All three of them with horns growing wild. One with breath so hot he can see it pour out through a bloody, fanged mouth. The one in the middle; its arm isn’t right, slightly disproportionate and covered in the tangle of fur that only a _beast_ should have.  


That’s impossible though, it’s unheard of. There’s no evidence of _scourge_ amongst Pthumerian specimens, no writings he’s come across have ever even postulated such a possibility. Caesar looks to Joseph, sees a rapt look of horror on his face. Even he doesn’t know how this could be.

For a short, long while, both parties remain unmoving, just examining, waiting. The strained silence of it all is broken when the Pthumerian in the middle starts to _speak_ to the others. Neither he nor Joseph could possibly understand whatever tongue is uttered between them. From sound alone, there’s an impression of light conversation, perhaps they chatter about the fresh company in their home, prison, whatever this place is to them. But the sense of innocent amusement is betrayed by the piercing look from all three of them, eyes glinting bright in dark sockets. They bore straight through Caesar and his partner. Seeing only _prey_.

And like _prey_ , Caesar feels small before them, beyond the fact their stature is like most Pthumerians ( _towering_ )...he hadn’t even felt so small before the literal Undead _Giants_ that he and Joseph had faced before. The one in the middle (their hair dark and wild, their beastly horns the largest, adorned more with gold and silver than their peers) loses their hollow, bemused expression quickly, and with some sharp sounding words, the other two Pthumerians rush towards Caesar and Joseph.

Caesar stows his pistol, connecting his longsword to its bladed sheath, the entirety of the Holy Blade far more appropriate for the sheer size of foe he faces besides Joseph. Joseph in turn wrenches open his Beast Cutter to its transformed state and together they stand ready.

The fight begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now if only there was a remix of Awaken (or w/e the OST is called) orchestral style with some cool latin choir and the lyrics forshadowing ominously what's about to go down...  
> Also! I have a poster in the works for this, hmu if you want a a rough preview of what I'm going for, or you can wait another decade on top of the previous one before I finish it like all of my bloodborne au art hahahahhahHHHHHHHHHH


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two components of battle is struggle and pain - Caesar can ease these. But seldom do such compassionate acts come without consequence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's shorter but will hopefully improve the overall flow for the next chapter, which I'm a little stuck on - I've planned it, I know what happens, but writing fighting is hard and gets repetitive so I'll try to watch for that.

As one Pthumerian approaches Caesar is quick to start the engagement, the heavy form of his Holy Blade coming crashing overhead in a vicious swing, the weight of it doing most of the work as he presses into the enemy. The other Pthumerian focusses their attention onto his partner, disrupting any chance to cooperate.

(The third appears content to watch, basking in battle before them, seemingly _above_ _it_ _all_ ).

As all fights are, there is a delicate balance between aggression and temperance, knowing when to interrupt, when to simply back away.

The one before him strikes hard, leaving rubble in its wake where fists collide with the ground and Caesar is glad to avoid such blows. Not only is the destructive strength evident, but tempestuous vortexes also are left in each attack’s wake. He would usually chalk these sorts of powers up to Pthumerian mysticism (and sciences) at its peak, but the _afflicted_ nature of all three Pthumerians says that this is a boon granted by _beasthood_ atop the eldritch talents of Pthumeru.

The mastery of such an element, forceful squalls of cutting wind, is akin to the Abhorrent creatures, unfamiliar to Caesar but Joseph had spoken his fair share of experiences on their nightly hunts, weaving tales that sounded fantastical, of his delves into Ailing Loran and its residents. 

(“Those beasts were gladly wielding _fire,_ I don’t know how to convince you. Just raised a hand a lit an orb into existence _,”_ Joseph had once said, “and then by the end of it all, some fucking skeleton monstrosity - it was nothing but, like, bone and hair, Caesar, that shat out _lightning_ !”

“Jojo, that’s _the_ most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard. Skeleton beasts? Making fire out of nowhere? Are you sure that you didn’t hit your head on your way through the dungeon?” Caesar had scoffed in return.

“I have no reason to lie, you’re just jealous you were dealing with stuck-up doctors whilst I was getting my hands dirty.” 

Stories like that certainly became believable as he was welcomed into the Choir, became witness to the fruits of their labour - deformed miracles and experimentation, the larval infants, not quite _celestial_ enough for their liking. Then had caught glimpses of what had been dredged up from _Isz_ , a fallen thing, abandoned and alone, an open secret even amidst his peers.)

Right now in this fight however, he doubts that Joseph with all of his experiences and excursions has ever fought anything wielding such a cohesion of power. That notion cements an oddly-placed desperation that Caesar has never indulged in on hunts prior.

He knows he has to end this fight _fast_. There is no reason this could be a fight won by way of endurance - not when there are three quasi-dead warriors bolstered by _hunger_ and _beasthood_. Not when he can count the number of vials he has left on both hands.

Not when one is still waiting, watching their struggle, it’s _entertainment_ for them.

Caesar focusses best his attention onto his opponent, trying to ignore how Joseph busies himself with theirs - the one with foggy-hot breath. Out of his peripherals, that one appears to be taking a beating, recoiling from the undoubtedly powerful swings of the Beast Cutter, its heavy segments reaching out in lengthy coils that keep Joseph at a safer distance than Caesar’s Holy Blade graces him.  
It all seems a little too easy, the damage done to them, Caesar muses, where he notes his own strikes only seem to stagger his Pthumerian combatant after uninterrupted blows where he pushes on the offense.

A vast explosion of blood erupts without warning from a little behind Caesar - from his companion's foe. _Dead already?_ Caesar wonders for a split-second before some of that spraying blood manages to spit out towards him in spite of the distance. With quick thinking but quicker reflexes, he manages to avoid most of the spray. What little hits him has him reeling, the blood _sears_ him where it soaks into his attire, clinging to skin, _excruciating_ despite the few streaks that appear.

The confusion at the pain’s source being _blood_ is overlooked as his attention is wholly wrenched towards Joseph, who's _covered_ in the stuff (and his Pthumerian foe still very much _alive_ ). His friend is screaming in pain as he sees him jam one, two, _three_ vials straight into himself, injecting the regenerative bounty to alleviate the damage done. 

_He’s still fast on his feet, thank goodness_ Caesar thinks as he watches Joseph return to form, running around his foe to get a better control of the space surrounding him. 

It’s not enough, the flame-blooded Pthumerian _aggressive_ as Caesar watches them pry into their own wounds to fling blood at Joseph, which catches him as they run away, trying to collect themselves, unable to find an opening now his technique of fighting from afar is matched.

Caesar weaves around his foe, making distance for a moment to give his brain time to think, comprehend, becoming utterly transfixed instead on Joseph’s fight, wanting to rush in but unable to, his own opponent moving to divide him from his companion every attempt he makes with more of those blustering attacks.

_The Bell!_ Caesar reaches into his coat and pulls out the delicate silver bell. He has enough quicksilver to transfuse, to awaken the power within its soft chime. _There’s enough time, enough distance surely?_ So he clears his mind and rings it.

The sound soothes his pains; Caesar watches as its chime beckons soft lights that surround himself, that pass over to Joseph too who is surely revitalised in that moment. He watches as Joseph moves with a burst of energy, able to get an upper hand now he isn’t forced to retreat and use even more vials.

As he turns back to his own fight his foe catches him completely unguarded, _distracted_. The decision to help Joseph has come at a cost (though the knowledge that Joseph is safe in this fleeting moment is priceless) as a monstrous fist cracks into his chest, the shock of the blow winds him (and immediately he knows something is broken, it’s hard to _breathe_ ) and he’s sent flying onto ground. Before he even has a chance to retaliate, to use his own vials after getting back onto his feet, the enemy grabs onto him and slams him back to the ground, like a child playing cruelly with a doll, up and down, up and down, before throwing him aside to crack his head _hard_ against the floor.

His brain fails miserably to concentrate on anything as he twists to try and stand up, finding himself unable to do so, completely without balance and his vision foggy.

Lying still and surely at death’s door, with hazy vision he watches Joseph, still caught up in his own fight, a dance of brutality.

Gazing at the way the Cutter twists and lashes out is mesmerising, always has been when it’s Joseph who wields it.

It becomes harder to watch as he pats himself down to feel out for vials, a whine caught in his throat as he feels something sharp, broken in his satchels instead, along with cool stickiness of spilt blood. The last of his quicksilver used to bolster Joseph in their moment of need, not that he would ever regret such an action.

Caesar lies with his skull split open and unable to do anything about it, all means of salvaging the situation out of his grasp (consciousness trickles from his head the same way that a warmth trickles from the back of his head down his nape, sticky).

Caesar thinks of the photo, that glorious smile on Joseph's child. Wishes he could have seen it in person. Then thinks nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter goes out to the one time I was stun-locked completely by an Abhorrent Beast in a Cursed Loran Dungeon and was obliterated in less than a minute and then proceeded to have my arse handed to me for an hour.  
> I'm just bad at fighting them in particular. They're so fluffy and deadly. Unlike Pthumerian!Wamuu, who is only deadly.  
> It also goes out to the concept of beastly pthumerians...like miyazaki...that would have been rad...and what do you give me? two identical old men in robes, shooting fire and blood at me in various ways...
> 
> [ what you should imagine the boss theme becomes when joseph realises what has happened](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z9KsJESRx38)


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joseph’s fought through countless dungeons before. Alone. Has always been prepared to do so again. It doesn’t mean this is how he wanted it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much fight-writing...sorry if it drags on, it’s why this chapter was a damn struggle.  
> Also I'll be editing in a link ASAP in the end notes for pthumerian!pillarmen designs and for...well...read and you'll see :)

The Pthumerian grasps at their wounds, surprised, delighted even from the laugh spat out at Joseph.

They fling the blood at him, some shards hitting Joseph before liquefying. He’s only just managed to regain his footing and he’s forced on the retreat again (it’s fine when he _chooses_ to run, gain ground, hates it when there’s no other option in the middle of a fight). It catches him off guard again because the blood _burns_ , more intensely than any torch flame or molotov cocktail thrown at him mistakenly by frightened folk on the worst of plagued nights, more intensely than the conjured, hurled flames by the horned beasts of _Loran_. The only thing that comes _close_ are the truly bestial guardians that look internally ablaze, massive and stomping on all fours with a narrowed snout that attacks. They spew out lava, and still, somehow, that seems _cooler_ than this blood.

His eyes catch onto Caesar briefly, who is just watching like a _fool_ when he should be busying himself in combat so they can whittle their collective foes together. Joseph then focuses on what's in front of him, a seething, monstrous Pthumerian elite making it abundantly clear there is no time for _distractions_.

More steps back, more of the monster pressing the advantage. Each time Joseph thinks there’s an opening more blood comes his way.

“Fuck fuck fuck give me a break!” It comes harshly from him, a little out of breath where he’s made to sprint back and around again by his foe.

Then he hears a soft chime, a soft flurry of light and he feels refreshed. Caesar’s done something, probably used a Tool of some kind, and it’s given Joseph the instant of respite he sorely needed to fight back against the enemy.

With a spring in his step, Joseph dances with them, hopping back, jilting forward, swinging his Cutter and letting the momentum of the whip rip forward in devastating arcs that rend his foe. The blood thrown at him is mostly wasted, the gimmick seen through; Joseph out-paces the movements of his enemy who only seems to enrage further as their attacks fail to connect.

Anger and fear invite mistakes, and Joseph takes advantage of his foe’s hastiness, they move to perform a series of attacks, and many strikes means _openings_ as Joseph finally uses his blunderbuss to bring a sudden pause to their movements. They are the one surprised, caught off-guard as Joseph drives his Cutter deep into them, gouging deeply and sending them to the ground.

After that it’s an uphill fight, there’s no bravado needed when he knows his skills speak volumes instead, countering and forcing his opponent back. Its face distorts briefly, becoming a mangled approximation of what it was before, teeth all shown and skin stretched taut. Joseph doesn’t take the time to show his disgust, letting his weapon demonstrate it instead, caving in the skull. It flails and falls, like any good, dying thing should. 

Joseph takes a moment to breathe, looks over to the wild-haired Pthumerian who appears agitated now one of their numbers is vanquished. 

_Has Caesar dealt with his?_

Joseph manages to roll from the immediate area as a turbulent force lands mere steps away; the Pthumerian that his partner had been fighting now upon him. But that means- Joseph turns to scope out the room, eyes darting to where Caesar had been. And he’s there!  
Past his new foe, on the floor. Utterly _still_. 

“Caesar!” He calls out. There’s no response and an icy shock stuns him at the prospect of- 

White blistering anger snaps in him to consume any of the suffocating fear and shock, and he replaces the choked sob caught in his mouth with a pellet of coagulated blood - a thing banned by the Church. It compliments his anger, his breath is as hot as the dead Pthumerian now and he feels how the substance quiets his thoughts, the way it closes off his mind and awakens _instinct_.

He makes remarkably quick work of the second enemy (already weakened by Caesar’s hand), pushing through the multiplied pain of the strikes that catch him - the cost of embracing beasthood. All his additional fervour is turned to a beastly strength that matches up to his opponent. Joseph doesn’t want or _need_ to fight safe right now, from afar. Rage and fury is substitute for his otherwise sharp mind, using the nascent state of his Cutter - the heavy-toothed club to bludgeon and beat. His strikes are faster and more frequent this way - and _faster_ and more _frequent_ means his blood burns hotter, his body pushed to its limits. By the end the second Pthumerian is tattered and in pieces - its remains match the piles encompassing the room. Joseph has no need to discern them anyway.

For a moment Joseph thinks it’s done, that he can just go to Caesar and with him, _leave._ A shadow instead looms over, the third Pthumerian eclipses his plan.

“I’m really not in the mood,” Joseph says, exhasperated. The effect of the pellet is still in his veins, cooling every moment he isn’t savaging something. But with another fight inevitable his blood will return to the broil again.

If the Pthumerian understands his comment its reaction is to laugh. Joseph doesn’t find his circumstances amusing. But he laughs too.  
Then he twists his body around, transforming his Cutter long, swinging it with vast momentum into the final enemy.

The attack connects, but he’s shocked to see it blocked by...a blade? No, it’s a crescent of _blood_ , protruding from the Pthumerian’s forearm - the one not riddled with fur (though this close it’s clear it isn’t the wiry fur of a beast but closer to quills and feathers, like the bloated Carrion Crows of Yharnam). The Pthumerian glowers at him, pressing back against his Cutter. Up close he can really see how much _more_ decorated this one is, surely denoting their eminence. With jewels and precious chains tangled in their hair, glistening, more glittering gold adorning the patches of mail armour. Joseph wonders just who this was. Something more than mere nobility. Something dangerous, sealed away to keep it and its kin from getting _out_ if Joseph hazarded a guess.

He’s just able to dislodge his Cutter - smashes it to the ground to lock it back into its nascent state so he can fight - the whip will only prove to tangle into that odd crystalline blood-blade.

The fight against _this_ Pthumerian is different, they act with far more agility, chasing down Joseph easily, the man already worn out from the previous battles. They mostly prioritise swipes with the bladed arm - the only boon Joseph has is that the attack has a level of predictability. 

Two vicious blunderbuss shots give Joseph some modicum of advantage, taking the Pthumerian down a notch, especially with the pellet enhancing all that he does.

The tempo of the fight disrupts when the Pthumerian stops in its tracks and grasps at its face, growling, snarling. They look like they’re in _pain_ , more so than when Joseph had plunged his weapon into their chest (the reaction to that had looked to be one of _mild inconvenience_ ) _._ These sounds however, Joseph could go as far to believe the noises are ones of _distress_. Steam pours off of their body, hotter and hotter; rapidly the wisps and fog collapses inwards a murky explosion punctuating a horrendous screech as the Pthumerian’s body twists and bursts, burgeons into _more_.

Joseph, in all his years raiding the Chalice Dungeons, has never witnessed a Pthumerian succumb to beasthood. The fact the three encountered within this tomb were clearly _afflicted_ in some way was one thing - honest transformation was another.

He’d watched his own peers turn on occasion, yes, with hot breaths and rotted eyes. He’d seen what it does when humanity is ripped from a hunter, replaced with plague and hunger. Pthumerians all seemed more undying than anything - between the hollow Keepers of ash and bone, the swollen round guards or the gravely sentinels with sword and shield 

But _this_ monstrosity before him _?_ This seems truly _impossible_ to Joseph.

The beast is unlike any he's seen before. It stands (haunched, doubled over) at _least_ thrice his height. There's not so much a mouth as there’s a long bill, its edge jagged, emulating the teeth and fangs he's seen on scourge beasts. The previously monstrous arm now looks closer to a wing than anything else, somewhat vestigial, the hand mangled amidst long dark feathers. The other has long shards of bone piercing through taut leathery skin. Blood oozes from the spines, the manipulation still evident even with beasthood having taken over the grand specimen of Pthumerian.

But if his foe is a _beast_ now... He whips his Cutter long, the trailing arcs of heavy toothed metal come screeching down on this newly transformed enemy, snaring on and into their flesh. With a ghastly tug, he retracts the gnashing whip, the familiar _pull_ of his weapon tells him that the serrated teeth have done their work tearing through newly-changed hide, fur and feathers as it eats into and leaves them wickedly gored - the wound open and clear. 

He feels a brief elation in the face of the grim rhapsody of devastation before him, the sickly crimson of the gash across its flesh bringing a perverse relief of all things. That this monstrosity is now vulnerable to his choice of arms, that his attacks will hurt twofold. That the _Pthumerian_ is no longer - it is _beast_ , through and through.

It means Joseph can do what he’s done best for _years_.

 _Hunt_.

\---

The encounter between himself and the beast lasts what feels an eternity after facing off two others, but the medicinal kick of the pellet still thriving in his system only continues to bolster his strength. Its long limbs deter any _tactical retreat_ with such imposing reach, but its huge form now presents another strategy; instead, he can get beneath it easily enough to strike at gangly limbs. It attempts to stomp at him, tries to turn and swing below its belly to get at Joseph, but his experience with other enormous beasts too proves _invaluable_ , recognising how to best avoid otherwise deadly attacks. His Cutter hacks through those limbs, arms first in hopes of reducing his foe’s strengths - success when the beast recoils and he watches the crystallised blood fall to the ground as liquid, unable to hold the bladed form with such damage. Joseph continues his assault, setting his weapon aflame with a quick practised swipe of Fire Paper, sure to only enhance his damage further against the bestial combatant.

It eventually collapses to the ground as he watches all four limbs spurt with blood, mangled. A shrill roar leaves it as it stills, bleeding out. The noise is ungodly, makes Joseph grimace but pays it no further heed.

_Good riddance._

Drained from the fight, his focus shifts to the most important thing in the room - the body of his friend, bleeding out.

Joseph doesn't pay much attention to the head of the beast jerking forward in a snap- _crunch_ at his arm. The beak-maw clamps down with intense force and Joseph howls as he feels bone breaking and then suddenly no sensation at all as he pulls his arm away, the awful jagged edge of the beast's maw tearing lines down and ripping his forearm clean off. He quickly bludgeons the head with his Cutter in retaliation. It reels back and he then shoots the battered spot with his blunderbuss as quick as he can, fumbling to use it with his remaining right hand - hears a crack, as the central horn of the beast snaps off and with it some the intricate chains and a gleaming red jewel woven into them is blasted off.

Only then does the beast slow and still once more, its body rapidly decomposing into a rotten, steaming pile until all his left is an eruption of blood (thankfully not boiling, unlike their companion’s) fountaining and petrifying.

Such an end would usually draw Joseph in in fascination, but he has to deal with the wound, the profuse bleeding.

Unsure of how wise it could be, he slams the now stump of his forearm to the surface of the still blazing metal, effectively cauterising the wound. The noise from him is twice as nasty as the smell of burning flesh and marrow, raucous and beastly like the Pthumerian’s final shriek as his arm convulses in extraordinary agony. Blood vials can aid the loss of blood, can close open wounds with incredible speed, but he doubts the voracity of regrowing extremities and limbs of larger calibre. Lost limbs are simply that, but he's known of hunters to fight with prosthetic legs and feet. A hand may be harder to work around, at least it’s just his firearms that'll be out of use.

Deliriously he looks over at the jewel now upon the ground. Picks it up and examines it. It’s not just some pretty jewel intricately housed in gold, the structures with it are like the ones that temper his Cutter further. A Blood Gem.

This one _pulses,_ hums with an energy in his palm, the pain dissipating immediately. Rare are the variety that _heal_. Often weak too, but this one’s effects are practically instantaneous.  
Pondering about Gems and their uses doesn’t matter right now though - he’s no longer bleeding out and the pain has subsided. And with this-

He rushes over to Caesar’s form, still, on the dungeon floor.

Joseph kneels over him, forcefully opens their palm and shoves the gem into it and closes it for them.

“Come on Caesar, don’t piss around. Get up,” he says. Silence. “Don’t ignore me, you bastard, I said _get up_.” Tears, shaky breaths. “Don’t- don’t you dare, my daughter’s owed a godfather you prick. _Get up!_ ” No response. He knows. Already _knew_ when he noticed the floor slick where Caesar’s head is, hair crowned with blood. Expression calm, reserved. What thoughts could have possibly brought such a serene look to his face when he’s- 

" _I'm_ owed _you_ , _I_ missed _you_. This is _mean_ \- this wasn’t part of the _plan_ , Caesar." 

He sits for a few minutes, hoping. It's all he can do, but hope doesn't _heal_. It just makes the truth more painful. Joseph curls up over Caesar's body, his tears mingle with the blood soaked through his friend’s clothes.

“Fine, _fine_.” Joseph takes the blood gem back, pockets it, Caesar can't get use out it anyway, after all he's-

“You don’t get to call me _lazy_ after this, _Caesarino_.” Joseph chokes out their name as he hoists Caesar's body onto his back. It's heavy, unmoving, with no breath against his ear. He doesn't care. Trudging through back the way they came, he manages to haul Caesar’s body to the first of several elevators back to the surface. As the pressure-switch is activated and the clanking of chains hoists the platform up Joseph collapses to his knees. The body remains heavy, still, draped across him like the finely woven Church cloak which denotes him: a desecrator of the dead.

There is no reward here, never were secrets to reveal, objects to find. As far as he’s concerned the gem, snug his coat, is of no business to anyone else. His _and_ Caesar's trophy, proof of what was slain here.

He's out of resources anyway, even if there was more beyond that room saturated with death - he'd not have chosen to continue on. Duty be _damned_.

(Caesar is out of the most precious resource in the world: _time_ ).

Joseph _screams_. 

_Nothing_ screams back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So incorporating the Stone of Aja into as a blood gem? Thanks Belladeum for chatting with me until that popped into my head.  
> Technically the Stone of Aja would fall under the Pulsing variety of bloodgems (aka health regen over time) and they’re typically the crescent variety rather than the more circular traditional blood gem. I mean the Tear Drop gem exists but unique so doesn’t count so meh, creative liberties. Equally Cursed Pulsing Gems would be non-crescent anyway… 
> 
> [Some pics I drew of Pthumerian squad and big ol birb Kars](https://mothkraft.tumblr.com/post/624872120279875584/as-complete-designs-as-ill-ever-manage-for-the)
> 
> So...who wants a Caesar Lives AU for this AU?  
> Haha jk...but what if…
> 
> Epilogue up next.
> 
> Also any and all comments are appreciated :). I'll be asking for folks' opinion on which part of the AU i'll work on next, I have two main options in terms of content that would 'work' to be finished off next.


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Body. Burial. Grave. Grief. Fear. Flee. Fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long...been struggling with writing, probably because re-reading over what I have for other parts is giving me major cases of self-doubt about this whole thing haha  
> thanks once again Belladeum for beta'ing, hopefully a03 doesn't botch up the formatting too much ///OTL

Upon exiting the Dungeon Joseph finds himself surrounded by far more than the serf-Giants and the one Church individual who played the role of instructor. Instead is a crowd clad in white, some Church Doctors, plenty more of the Choir, (all with their visors, hiding their faces - there is no need to differentiate, they are all men and women of _obsession_ ). 

Joseph doesn’t need this, doesn’t want this. Though their faces are covered, he knows all too well that their gaze is put upon him - and on him _alone_ as he carries his friend’s body. 

(Nothing of _real_ value to _them_ , the weight of the world to _him_ ).

And though a corpse has no _worth_ , the Choir dares to want Caesar's body. To covet under the guise of care - the explanation so clinical, so _bullshit_. That they reserve the right to to _tend_ to their own; Joseph _knows_ what that means - to perform an autopsy, to pillage what was left, see what lurks in blood and body, to crack open his skull further and examine its lining, distorted successors of Byrgenwerth they claim not to be. 

_(Eyes, eyes, wretched eyes, is that all you want?_ )

Joseph doesn't deign them a refusal, firmly keeping the body draped over him as he walks through a sea of bodies who part hesitantly.

When murmurs rise they are curbed by a sharp, familiar voice - his _mother's_ doing (she stands amongst their ranks, without the glinting blindfold nor its stupid hat as if that is supposed to mean _anything_ to him, that she is somehow different from the rest. He can’t bear to look at the expression on her face, neutrality betrayed by the gut instinct Joesph feels - that she has lost something so very _dear_ too - a protege, a friend, maybe even a _son_ ).

But credit must be given, for the wild spark in his eyes is surely as much a deterrence as the word of a superior. A mute warning to any in this instant who would stand their ground before him, a Hunter so very tired and so very _willing_ to be given further reason to defy the Church after this _fruitless_ endeavour, after this waste of _life_. A one-man revolt that will devastate should he act, regardless of the numbers. If what he tore apart mere hours ago meant anything at all, it is that he isn’t cut of cloth fated to die by the hands of thinkers and _madmen_.

(And in the end, Caesar was never really one of _them_ anyway, he had been Joseph's partner on long nights first, under Church authority or not, and what had been spilt was beast's blood not that of some patient or something to dissect on a table. His burial would be far away from dreadful Yharnam, his body wouldn't be cut open for sick experimentation. He would be truly laid to _rest_. In peace and miserable death.)

Still it’s not the Church’s nature to simply bend at the will of one unruly hunter. Joseph makes a request of his mother, Lisa-Lisa, that she guarantees Caesar’s body will be preserved and moved beyond Yharnam’s walls to be buried. Her position amidst echelons of the Choir is sure to grant her that where a plea from him would fall on deaf dogmatic ears. Nothing pillaged, nothing stolen. Just a simple burial, maybe a casket, maybe a headstone. For that, Joseph promises docility, that he will not fight against the Church after all they have asked of him, after all that had been _taken_ from him because of their insistent meddling with the Dungeons. There have been hunters before defiant, a thorn in the side of their _progress_. He knows they have all manner of ways should they decide him one such thorn too.

In the end he ventures a little ways beyond Yharnam’s suffocating walls to tend to the deed of digging Caesar’s grave. He forgoes any good rest or truly reuniting with his wife and child to make sure all is in order. It’s the least he can do. He _owes_ Caesar that much, if not his life entirely.

There’s no catharsis in turning up the fresh earth, no satisfaction as he puts the body down to rest. It’s just another task, another job. To think of it any more than obligation is to pry at the deep pain he’s done his best to numb ever since he hauled Caesar’s body from the stone floor of the tombs. When it’s done and he’s piled the dirt back over he looks at his work. It’s a good grave, he thinks, for it being his first. Ever. Wonders whether someone will take the time to bury him too, or should he die on a hunt whether he’ll be relegated to the piles of men and beast they _burn_ into one smouldering mass.

“Good night Caesar.”

Joseph sleeps at the grave too for several nights, on the off-chance someone dares to _take_ anything more from him, but no Church folk come. He never did take his mother as one to break her word.

His mother approaches, alone on the third night, where Joseph had dozed against the small stone cairn that denotes all that is _Caesar_. Joseph snaps out of his restless rest.

"There's nothing for you to say.” He stands, puts himself between Caesar and his mother, ready to pull his Cutter on her.

"I'm not here to talk," she stops the conversation before Joseph can even bring himself to scream vitriol at her so he isn’t stuck railing it at himself.

She steps closer and hands him a photo. 

It's Caesar, in his Choir uniform. The photo was taken without his knowledge - he's lauding over books, leaning into a fist which pushes his chin up. He looks _grumpy_ , there's a little pout at whatever he's reading, maybe it had been a long text with outdated prose, or maybe it's just flat out wrong (the intimacy of the snapshot almost brings Joseph to tears then and there - almost because the wetness on his face can't be real because he surely has none left to shed and Lisa-Lisa doesn't comment at all).

"Thank you." It's all he can think of to say. He places the photo in his coat, Caesar sits with Holly that way. Lisa-Lisa looks as if she is to say something, but doesn’t. Just nods with a silent offer to return back to Yharnam. Joseph only accepts because he is _exhausted_ and perhaps he doesn’t want to be left alone with his thoughts. He dares not look back to the grave and the shadow it casts on his heart in early hues of sunrise.

  
  


There is no peace to be sought in Yharnam after his return, after a short, mandated time for respite. He's of the Workshop and remains duty bound to protect and serve the good people of Yharnam from the beasts that come by night. Nothing really seems that much of a threat anyway after those Pthumerians.

Time moves on, as it should. It softens the crude edges of mourning and hurt, but not enough to satisfy Joseph.

Hunts become a sick kind of sport, an opportunity to release everything he refuses to otherwise let out, everything he can not bear to admit as weeks become months. 

The bloodshed of _that_ Dungeon should have been overwritten by the bloodshed he builds each time night drapes over Yharnam. It isn't.

It's harder to fight with one half of his Hunter's arsenal unusable, the prosthesis fitted is there for appearance’s sake, a stiff metal thing good for bashing the skull of a snarling beast and very little else. Despite that, the tally grows higher on the number of beasts he rips apart, but so does the number of clumsy mistakes now he fights, one-armed, that leave him riddled with injuries. To him it’s no cause for concern, that curious Blood Gem, his hidden prize, keeps him safe. Lets him hunt longer and harder than any man should.

Suzie doesn't comment on the ungodly hours Joseph returns. Or if she does, Joseph is too out of mind to notice anymore. Though he _lies_ in the same bed as her, he doesn’t _sleep_. He doesn’t have nightmares of those Pthumerians, of that final, terrible Beast anymore (he doesn’t _dream_ anymore either, no wistful revisits of his youth, of Caesar’s face, smudging blood to their dismay when he would hold it. Of kisses stolen in the night, simple, inelegant _, enamoured._ )

And when memories creep in to dilute all he has even now, Joseph beats them back knowing fully well how _selfish_ it is to want and desire _now_ with such fervour. To realise _now_ , just how much he had still cared for Caesar only in their _permanent_ absence. Such self-serving _avarice_ when he loves and cares for the family he'd created just as much, more so seeing as he forged a life with them. For them. 

The thought that Caesar could of- _should be_ present in their lives, a fixture for things never to come, forces ugly sobs and uglier words that Suzie listens to when no else can.

(She isn’t there to pick up the pieces - that’s Joseph’s duty to himself. But she, with her own burdens of grief, is there to _accompany_ Joseph as they both stumble on a road to healing - though Joseph falls twice as often and thrice as hard trying to abandon selfishly obsessing with a loss he thinks only he knows. Suzie had known Caesar too on those nights before the Choir. Had spent lazy days together with the both of them, had wished them both safety on nights saturated with screams and howls. Had spoken fondly of him more openly than Joseph could manage amidst the years of separation from Caesar. They had _all_ possessed a curious affinity. Friends through and through, perhaps afraid to be anything more, too much to lose in youth. Lost anyway, so what purpose was malign fear?) 

Months turn to years. Holly is growing up, and whilst older demons are _slowly_ being put to rest a new fear strikes him like nothing has before. So tangled in his own bereavements he forgets that he is a _father_. And that means he’s an _influence_. For years he'd taken to patrolling the streets just to find anyone with a hint of beast blood to have an excuse to let loose the grief that won't leave him under the guise of _duty_.

Joseph doesn't want his daughter to think this is what obligation looks like, that his actions are performed with a certain glory.  
To follow in his footsteps is to beckon fate and its clawed, gnarled hand. To let it grasp at you and never let up on your tailcoats.

The Workshop has one less dutiful, vigilant hunter as Joseph stops his nightly _strolls_. 

He packs away his infallible companion, his Beast Cutter, and gently retrieves the old band he'd taken from his old friend's corpse. 

( _Hypocrite_ his own voice sings to him. _Stealing from the dead after bargaining for him to be left undisturbed Joseph, you’re a_ **sick** _man_. _But that’s how you started all this, taking what isn’t yours. Taking what isn't yours from the_ **_dead_** _._ )

The ribbon is as vibrantly coloured as it was before, kept lovingly safe in a locked chest full of other memoirs of better (but just as bloody) times. Of note are his first Hunter's badge from the Workshop, the cloth emblem awarded to him by the Church. His hands trace over the exquisitely crafted monocular Caesar had gifted him along with most awful confession in history.

(“ _Maybe with this and if you_ **_looked_ ** _harder once in a while you’d see I care about you greatly!”_ )

Joseph softly presses the ribbon to his lips, tears welling in the corner of his eyes as a sob slips out. Carefully, he wraps and ties it around his hunting hat, so at least he doesn’t hide the memory anymore, so Caesar is with him now (better late than never).

He urges his family to pack what they can in preparation to simply up and oust their lives away.

(Joseph takes the contents of the chest, maybe out of nostalgia or simply the inability to let go. The Blood Gem has stayed with him since and shall continue to do so. His and Caesar’s prize, always and forever.)

To stay in Yharnam is to beget rot - for the Church is rotten. Its people too. He will not let his family face such a possibility any longer.

The old man, Speedwagon, says little as Joseph confides his plan to depart, answering instead by providing a horse and carriage to help steal him, Suzie and Holly away from this awful city. 

“So much like your grandfather, he’d be proud of you,” he says. Like that means anything to Joseph, the Joestar name having been nothing but a legacy he’s failed to live up to. But he hasn’t the heart to speak vitriol to Robert, the father he never really had.

“I’m proud of you,” Speedwagon adds as Joseph helps his daughter into the carriage. 

_What’s there to be proud of?_

“It’s not so much a parting gift, but here.” Speedwagon reveals a wooden box, clasped shut. Joseph wonders what’s inside.

“I made these for Jonathan,” Speedwagon says as he shows its contents, a pair of oddly crafted gauntlets, such that he’s never seen before, studded leather, rough forged metal, even some _bone_ too. “I kept them hidden after his death, never wanted them in the hands of anyone other than Jonathan, but a _Joestar_ should have them, even if you don't use them - even if _you_ can’t."

Joseph laughs. Even now as he moves to take his family far, far away from Yharnam, such grim humour catches him off guard.

Though the gauntlets look to be of fine craftsmanship (he’d expect no less from something made by Robert in his prime) Joseph doesn’t think he’d actually want to wield them, his Beast Cutter will always remain a reliable friend.

He takes the box, _a parting gift indeed_ because he wishes nothing more than to never return to Yharnam, nor ever have reason to. He’s sure there will be beasts beyond the walls as sure as the sun rises each day but the threat will be dampened. It is inevitable that he will have to teach his precious daughter what it means to survive in a world bogged down in monstrosities, but he is sure she will never have to partake in it as the routine of Yharnam nights.

Oh, but to try and _run_ from fate? If not the _life_ of a Hunter, his daughter should live, then fitting instead she shall possess the _legacy_ of one instead; the churning sickness, an ode to the impending yoke all Hunters forged in Yharnam should face:

**_(Curse the fiends, their children too..._ **

**_Their children, forever true.)_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun ending yes? Good. Things can only go well for the SDC crew. Although I’ll be working on ‘Phantom Blood’ arc next...get ready for Dio Brando ruining everything (and Jonathan honestly what the fuck did you expect bud?).
> 
> Ok, since it'll be further established in the SDC part, the gauntlets are one of two unique trick-weapons I've come up with for the AU, because the only 'fist' weapons are The Fist Of Gratia (and honestly thinking about it now having Jotaro just dual wielding two metal slabs and just staggering enemies is pretty in character, but it's a unique off-hand weapon that wasn't recreated by the Workshop like Simon's Bowblade - so nope) and then technically Beast Claw, which also isn't an option realistically or thematically.  
> So Jotaro gets his own thing, I'm just kind to him like that.  
> The other trick-weapon belongs to well, I’d like to think people can guess and honestly the design for that one i’m pretty pleased with. I hope in good time when I get to reveal it, it will be appreciated lmao. Have stats, mechanics and item description down for it and everything...  
> Would appreciate some comments, I also have a twitter (that i use) now @xymothan so if anyone ever wants to search my skull for eyes (or just madman's wisdom) about this AU hit me the fuck up. I also have notes on a separate Steel Ball Run/Bloodborne au. Oh and a bruabba DS3 au but that's not very fleshed out lmao.  
> take care and until the next Part.

**Author's Note:**

> tfw notes are longer than prologue lol.
> 
> I guess promo myself, you can find art related to the AU on my tumblr (mothkraft) tagged under 'jojo's bloodborne adventure'. I haven't got too much stuff there rn but it's some world-building. And feel free to message me for details if you're curious.
> 
> now that's done, actual notes pertaining bloodborne info:
> 
> Oh boy, a bunch of words and phrases are gonna mean nothing to folks unfamiliar with Bloodborne but that's why things are capitalised. My notes too are gonna be garbled nonsense to people who don't know Bloodborne. End me.
> 
> No-one in this AU is connected to the Hunter's Dream, because that removes all sense of threat and danger.  
> Because being a Hunter of the Dream means you can't die, (the graphic novel kind of implies that it acts like a time-loop/groundhog day style scenario more than anything else).
> 
> The Chalice Dungeon in question is obviously fictional, but to those initiated consider it like Pthumeru Ihyll so it's Depth 5 (for those unknowing, that's the hardest difficulty excluding adding cursed debuffs to a ritual) Also as it is a kind of fictionalised Ihyll...people familar with BB should already know where this is going from a narrative point.
> 
> As mentioned in the tags Jo+Caesar are closer to their 30s/very late 20s during these events. I probably won't explore their earliest days (baby's first hunt...wow) because I'm lazy and it's not a priority for me, sorry.
> 
> Joseph started out under the Church as a Tomb Prospector age 20ish (hence he uses the appropriate gear in the Chalice Dungeons) for several years before leaving their direct authority and becoming a Hunter under the Workshop, dealing instead with beast hunts and attacks in Yharnam.
> 
> Caesar was always more affiliated with the Church, being something like a Black Church Hunter (hence being involved with beast hunting and working with Joseph) before climbing the ranks and getting into the Choir, which is like, still part of the Church but is also their own little faction fixated on the Great Ones and communing with them to achieve ascenion/evolution (and using some Blood) rather than the main body of the Healing Church which seems to seek this via the use of Blood and that's it.  
> Or at least that's how I understand it. Bloodborne lore is a mess.
> 
> As mentioned Joseph uses a Beast Cutter because 1) it's hermit purple 2) a weapon of an older generation of Hunters which bears more significance later. 3) it's actually a really good weapon and I am mad I didn't use it in earlier playthroughs  
> Caesar uses Ludwig's Holy Blade because 1) I said so 2) just a good Church Weapon


End file.
